Afterwards she put the remaining rice in a saucer, covered it with another, and placed it in front of the fire. I soon saw why. A lanky boy of nearly fourteen came in from school, and she pointed to the saucer. He took it, and swallowed the rice, and looked at me. I looked at the boy, and read the history of his life in his face and body. He had been born in that room; that was his bed in the corner covered with match-boxes. The old woman was his mother. Three and sixpence every week had she paid for that room. Nearly three days of the week she had worked for interminable hours to earn the money that paid for the shelter for herself and the boy. I will not describe the boy. Was he a boy at all? All his life he had lived, moved, and had his being in that room; had fed as I saw him feed, and had breathed the air I was breathing. He went back to school, and I talked to his mother. She owed no rent; she had received no parish help. She never went to church or chapel. She wanted nothing from anybody. That little room had become her world, and her only recreation was taking her boxes to the factory. Grimy and yellow were the old hands that kept on with the boxes. I offered her a holiday and rest. There was the rent to be paid. I would pay the rent. She had no clothes suitable. Mrs. Holmes would send her the clothes. There was the boy to be seen to. I would arrange for him. No; she would not go. Her last word was that she did not wish or care to leave her home. Neither did she. And though years have passed since my first visit to that one-roomed house, out of it the old woman has not passed, excepting on her usual errand. And fresh air, clean sheets, and relaxation meant nothing to her. I sat in the dark, damp kitchen of a house in one of the narrow streets of Hoxton. Over my head some very poor clothing was hanging to dry. It was winter-time, and the gloom outside only added to the gloom within, and through a small window the horrors of a London back-yard were suggested rather than revealed. As I sat watching the widow at her work, and wondered much at the mechanical accuracy of her movements, I felt something touch my leg, and, looking down, found a silent child, about three years of age, on the floor at my feet. I had been in the room some few minutes, and had not previously seen or heard the child, it was so horribly quiet. I picked it up, and placed it on my knee, but it was passive and open-eyed as a big doll. The child had been born in that kitchen on a little substitute for a bed that half-filled the room. Its father was dead, and the widowed mother got a "living" for herself and her children by attaching bits of string to luggage labels, for which interesting work she got fourpence per thousand. In her spare time she took in washing, and the clothes over my head belonged to neighbours.